Christel Donley, 72, of Colorado Springs proudly wears her gold medal from the W70 heptathlon at worlds. She earned it.

You can read the results, see her marks. But nothing on the Riccione Web site does justice to the conditions that faced Colorado’s Christel Donley and her fellow over-65 heptathletes on Sept. 4-5, 2007. In short, they were ghastly. She was ready for Riccione. A month earlier at Orono nationals, she set a W70 American record in the pentathlon. But that was in warm, benign conditions. The event in Italy was grief from the start. Here is her account, which takes the form of memories set down in a diary. She begins: “It is 2 o’clock in the morning. I am wide awake and rehearsing the happenings of the past two days. Was the competition for real? Did it really happen the way I recall it? Oh yes! The more I think about it, the more situations pop into my mind, a melodrama with luckily a comic ending.”

Christel continues:

Sept. 3, the day before the heptathlon, was bright and sunny, simply a delight after the long flight. The declaration, the instructions and whatever we needed to know — all under control — until I looked at the bulletin board.
Weather forecast. Oh no, this cannot be! Tomorrow heavy winds and rain. Deja vu from Myazaki — where I hugged a tree very tightly not to get blown away.
Back at the hotel, the same “encouraging” words: It’s going to be bad tomorrow — and the next day.
Tomorrow came. I did get a ride to the track in San Giovanni from the lady who owned our hotel. We tried to do a dry run the day before, but simply could not get to the track. Shuttle buses were not running that early in the morning, at least we could not locate them.
While driving to the stadium, which took an Italian driver almost 40 minutes and she knew the way, we took a glance at the sky. It looked terrible.
Arriving at the track, we saw only a few people there. Are we opening up the place? Not quite. More and more athletes arrived and so did officials; it just did not look like a world championships. More like an all-comers meet. (And truly, everybody came and so did the wind.)
The people in the declaration tent were setting up their computer, and the heptathletes were told to check in 45 minutes before the first event, and then stay at the tent. How do we warm up and, more importantly, where?
Warming up on the track was not permitted, since the decathlon 100 was scheduled before our hurdles. We found a grass area for stretching and simply ignored the “can’t warm up inside the track” sign. After all, it was in Italian, which we chose not to understand. What’s NO in Italian? Let me not forget about the weather; it got darker and darker, more wind — and we spent our time running by the officials who wanted us off the track.
It was comical. One person got sent back; the others just sprinted in the opposite direction. It looked like we made “friends” instantly.
Forty-five minutes to countdown: report to the tent, names taken, sit down and don’t leave anymore. How do we stay warm? Can we have at least one hurdle to practice. Of course, nobody spoke English, so nobody understood us. Is there anybody who speaks English? Nooo.
OK, not their fault. We do not speak Italian, just English, Norwegian, German, Portuguese and English.
While the confusion in the tent got worse, all hell broke loose. The wind graduated to a full-blown storm, throwing everything in the tent in a different place — papers flying, people shouting, “Let’s get out of here.” The tent was partly collapsing and a few brave souls tried to stabilize it (later on, we saw, it held up.)
I tried to retrieve my bag and headed for the stands. No time for a raincoat. Forget the umbrella. Only 30 meters to the grandstand and I was drenched. Everybody literally ran for cover.
Up the stairs, a few of us saw the press box way up. Without asking, we just stormed into the door. The room was big enough for about three people. The lady announcer just grabbed her mike and lists and started laughing. What a relief. Nobody tried to stop us from invading this small room. After a while, there was no standing room anymore. Head count at one time: 32. We were dry but could not fall over — too packed — and waited for things to come.
And it came, for the next 3 hours: wind and rain. Looking down on the track, what a mess. Hurdles down, high jump pit moved, the cover for the pit somewhere and athletes and guests huddled under the stands. Oh, and new athletes arrived. The bus found the way!
Question over and over: Could somebody please make a decision, to call the meet? We had that great suggestion, why not do the whole heptathlon in one day? Like tomorrow — though the forecast was not any better.
About 11:30 a.m. the announcer came back with the news: We will be starting at noon. The rain was still heavy, but the wind had calmed down a bit. The hurdles were set up again and we tried to find a way to warm up, like in the bleachers. No chance to go down to the track. One can stretch anywhere, and that’s what we did.
Meanwhile all W65-plus heptathletes got to know each other. Some of us were old friends, so we just hung together and rushed back to the calling tent. As I mentioned, it was still standing! Same story — sit down and wait. I was only thinking of how I could get some running in. For months I had worked on staying injury-free and now, running hurdles under those conditions and not being warmed up, not a great idea.
The women 60-69 got their call and headed out. I tried to get out of the tent to just watch, got called back. I think I tried it a few more times and finally made it around the corner to just see the race off.
Our call came, rain and all. I tried to go over one hurdle, simply ignored the official and took two hurdles. It felt awful. No time to think anymore. Tried to take my tights off. Too wet to get out of them. So I just got into my lane, caught the gun and off I went. Total concentration. Last two hurdles in 5 steps and the race was over.
Not too bad. And most importantly, I won.
One event down. Six to go.
It was still raining and I was wet and cold, and on my way to the high jump. My thoughts are to stay head of my biggest competition, Monica Tang Wing. I have known her for years;she is the better sprinter and jumper. At least I think so!
At the high jump came a nice surprise: We will all jump together, W65 and up. There are five athletes in the 65 group, four in the 70s and two in the 80s. Call again came for 65 and over! Somehow the head official had learned enough English. Again 65 and over.
We line up to check in, only to be told, it is 65 and over. YES, that’s what we are, but no, you are not. You are not 65 and over; you are 70-plus.
Again and again, “65 and over.” It did not take long to figure out, she meant only the 65-69 group, but we absolutely tried to misunderstand her. Why should we wait, standing in the rain, until the five ladies were finished?
We found a lady official from Great Britain. who tried to make the head official understand that we could all jump together, starting at the lowest height. Then came the same sing-song: “65 and over.” We, the 70-plus, gave up.
Then a blessing comes our way. Phil Raschker whispers: “There is a room over there with an open door (another press box?) No, a small locker room with a hair dryer. The news spread fast — let the 65 and over jump. We can dry out for a while, almost an hour that is!
Another “angel” came my way. I was desperately looking for a dry pair of sweat pants and Jeanne Daprano took hers off and handed them to me. What I forgot to mention is — amid all the commotion with the 65 and over went on — a few of us took a practice jump into a water-filled high jump pit. Yuck! More wet, more cold.
Back to the locker room. The hair dryer served perfectly to dry my uniform and everybody followed suit. The one table in the room was a resting place for everybody, five minutes at a time. Nobody was eager to get out. Let the “65 and over” take their time.
The rain stopped. Sun is coming. Hurrah!
We finally get to jump, and it takes us less than an hour. Some of the water in the pit had been absorbed by the other jumpers. Meanwhile, a few weary sounds (but not from me): “Does anybody have food?” Yes, somewhere in my bag is a banana and some cookies, so we share! There was no concession stand on the first day, but plenty of water, in bottles and from above!
Over to the shot put.
Which group will go first? Let me guess. We all started together. On the way to the shot put ring, Phil came with the depressing news — the distances were horrible, almost a meter under her normal distance. Could we do any better? Nope. But we helped the officials reading off the distance. I will stop right here — that one really got to me. Besides, I slipped in the ring. Points lost, but still ahead.
No scores available; computers down.
Final event of the day is the 200 meters. No more rain, but a strong headwind in the curve. Lame excuse for a poor time; I just have not run anything over 100 — absolutely out of fear of pulling another hamstring.
Lots of points lost, still no score. After a short visit to the computer room and a plea for the results, an English-speaking young lady found it for us — minus the 200. Got great advice from Phil: You need to bring your own scoring table and a calculator.
Oh yes, we did thank the officials. Everybody was smiling, and we left as friends, not knowing if they were just glad to be rid of us. “We shall see you tomorrow — same place, earlier time and same weather forecast!”
It took another hour with two different buses to make it to our hotel. The beach chairs were empty and not all in the same place anymore. Lots of debris everywhere. Our hotel owner, Renata, welcomed us with words of comfort that we had to endure such weather, and offered us wine and cake — even before dinner. She assured us that the weather would be equally bad tomorrow morning. Whatever.
I went to bed almost immediately, and slept for almost 11 hours. We had to leave the hotel by 6:30 a.m on Wednesday.
How on earth do I get to the track, except by taxi? Buses just did not run the time we needed them. And the location was the absolute furthest from our hotel. Renata offered again to take me and two of my friends. This time I insisted that we pay her, which she first refused and then brought me a packed lunch with every goody I could think of.
On the way to the track, passing the empty bus station, a lonely lady was standing, waiting for a bus that never came. It was Johnnye Valien. We made a turn, literally commanded her into the car, and explained later. Was she ever glad we spotted her!
We arrived at the track, and it started to rain again.
It is 7 a.m. How do I get my stiff muscles moving? Thunder and lightning prevent us from even going outside. So again we all sit in the tent awaiting our fate. About 30 minutes pass and the call comes — ready to go over to the long jump.
Where do we warm up? No place on the track. A racewalk has just started. Ten women on the runway of the long jump are trying to get a few quick steps in. Déjà vu. How can anybody get ready? Trying to find an approach with a board 3 meters from the pit seemed too far for all of us but one lady.
No problem (good Italian expression). We are told: You can jump from about 1 meter. But we have no tape to give us a visual clue. We are told: We will make you a scratchboard from wet sand and you can just take off in front of that makeshift plasticine board.
What? We all just look at each other. We need to see where we can take off. “Sorry, maybe a white ribbon will do.”
Seriously, that was the offer. Not a good idea. The first person stepping on it will take the ribbon into the pit.
What on earth can we do to improve that situation? Yes, somebody found a small container with white chalk. Yes, let’s go. The rain stopped and I was wondering how quickly the sand scratch board would dry out and crumble.
Problems solved?
No way; it gets worse. The one jumper who wanted to take of from the 3-meter board was told that she had to jump from the same take-off as the rest of us. Why that? All the officials had to do is read off from the board.
Did not work. The official refused and told her she could not jump unless she waited out the whole competition and then take her three jumps in succession. She did wait. And after all the arguing and frustration, we finally started. Need I say, that all that took a toll on our performances? We wasted more time and energy arguing, pleading and getting angry.
Five events down, two to go.
Now the javelin. My secret fear always is: Will the javelin come down point first? What kind of javelins will be provided?
This time, not to worry. Two good implements were available. Strangely, most of the athletes did not care to really get warmup throws. Two of us insisted to really warm up, so the officials granted us about five throws, which really helped me.
The measuring was done very efficiently. One official had an electronic measuring stick that was connected to a computer. He was the only one to run after every throw, trying to mark the landing. Two other officials literally just stood there and watched.
If you think I am getting too critical, you are right!
Javelin over. Distance for me not too great, but enough points to increase my lead.
Last event: the dreaded 800 meters.
We were lucky, the 65-69 age group ran as a separate race.
Our turn came, and we got onto the track, listening to instructions. What was that? A starting gun went off on the opposite side of the track. A 5K racewalk for the oldest age groups just started. No way they could be stopped. We just walked off the track.
I think I was at a loss for words. I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. How long does a 5K walk take? A long time, and one really funny thing happened. The last racewalker, a 90-year-old lady from Mexico, crossed the finish line. We clapped and she hugged everybody in sight. We literally hugged her off the track, just hoping that it would be our turn.
The gun went off and for the first time in my life I found myself in the lead of the 800. Nobody wanted to pass me. I have been known to immediately go to the back. No luck this time. I have no idea what made me stay in front. I just talked to myself: “You have to do it.”
I also knew I’d win the competition if I just finished under 5 minutes. Don’t tell this to any real runner. Monica Tang Wing came along my side and just ran my speed. I knew she could do a lot better, but she stayed with me.
With about 300 meters to go, I heard Phil Raschker yelling, “Go, Christel, you are almost home.”
I would have loved to answer: “It’s a long way home” but refrained. Monica was whispering something that sounded like: “Are we running together?” I answered, “Go ahead if you can.” She did, but not too far.
I just somehow followed and with 100 to go I found another gear, probably had saved everything – and sprinted the last stretch. It must have looked good. I got a lot of cheers and just hoped nobody would look at the time. I have never won an 800 unless I ran by myself.
So all was well and the best was yet to come: IT WAS OVER, NO INJURY, THE SUN WAS OUT AND THE FOUR OF US WERE HUGGING AND LAUGHING. AND I WON!
I really thank all my friends/ fellow competitors and just hope, everybody stays healthy, so we can meet again.
Truly, by now I should just laugh about all the instances that made it pretty difficult. And I do.